Gideon's Sword (49 page)
Authors: Douglas Preston
“Harris…” Cheese asks for the third time.
“Just tell me where it happened.”
“Listen, don’t do anything rash—”
“Where’d the damn accident happen?!”
“D-Down on New Jersey. By the strip club.”
“Cheese, listen to me. Don’t tell anyone what happened. This isn’t office gossip—it’s a friend. Understand?”
Before he can answer, I shut my phone, turn the corner, and pick up the pace. My jog accelerates into a run, which accelerates into a full-on sprint. My tie flaps over my shoulder, waving in the wind. A noose around my neck. I should be so lucky.
Rushing toward the overpass on New Jersey Avenue, I see flashing lights spinning in the distance. But the moment I realize they’re yellow instead of red, I know I’m too late. Up by the gravel driveway, the driver’s-side door of a flatbed tow truck slams shut, and the engine coughs itself awake. On the back of the flatbed is a black Toyota with a smashed-in front end. The driver hits the gas, and the tow truck rumbles deeper into southeast D.C.
“Wait!” I shout, chasing it up the block.
“Please, wait!”
I don’t have a chance. Even I’m not that fast. But on the back of the truck, the front of the Toyota’s still facing me. I keep running full-speed, staring hard at the grille, which taunts me with its jack-o’-lantern grin. It’s a twisted smile, with a deep indentation on the driver’s side. Like it hit something. Then I catch the dark smudge toward the bottom of the grille. Not just something. Someone.
Matthew
…
“Wait… waaaait!”
I scream until my throat begins to burn. It still doesn’t bury the pain. Nothing does. It’s like a corkscrew in my chest, tightening with every second that passes. I’m still running as fast as I can, looking around at the world, searching for something… anything that’ll make sense. It never does. My toes curl. My feet sting. And the corkscrew continues to tighten.
The tow truck kicks back a black cloud of exhaust and fades up the block. I run out of gas just beyond the gravel driveway—where the truck picked up the Toyota.
Two weeks ago, a seventeen-year-old Asian delivery boy was the victim of a hit-and-run a few blocks from my house. The cops kept police tape around the scene for almost six hours so they could get paint samples from the other vehicles the car collided with. Bent over and covered in sweat, I scan up and down the block. There’s not a strand of police tape in sight. Whoever worked this scene… whoever cleaned it up… they found all the answers they needed right here. No suspects. No loose ends. Nothing to worry about.
Lost in a haze, I kick a loose pebble from the street. It skips across the pavement and clinks against the sidewalk. Just shy of the telephone pole. There’s some glass from the headlights scattered at the base and some torn-up grass patches from where they dragged the car out. Otherwise, the pole’s untouched. I crane my neck up. Maybe off by ten degrees.
Tracing it backward, it’s not hard to follow. Tire tracks in the gravel show me where the Toyota’s wheels started to spin. From there, the trail goes straight up the driveway. Dead-ending at the Dumpster.
I kick another pebble through the gravel, but as it hits
the Dumpster, the metal sound is different from before. Hollow. Completely empty.
There’s a dent in the base of the Dumpster, and a dark puddle right below it. I tell myself not to look, but… I have to. Lowering my chin, I squint with a hesitant peek. I expect it to be red, like some bad slasher sequel. It’s not. It’s black. Just a shallow black stain. All that remains.
My stomach cartwheels, and a snakebite of acid slithers up my throat. I clench my teeth to fight the vomit. My head again floats from my shoulders, and I stagger backward, grasping for balance. It doesn’t come. Crashing on my ass, I slam against the gravel driveway, my hands slicing across the rocks. I swear, I can’t move. I roll on my side, but all it does is bring me back to the dent in the Dumpster. And the black stain. And the crush of rocks surrounding it. I’m not sure why I came. I thought it’d make me feel better. It doesn’t. With my cheek against the ground, I’ve got an ant’s-eye view of the thin crawl space below the Dumpster. If I were small enough, I’d hide underneath, tucked behind the gum wrappers, empty beer bottles, and… and the one thing that’s clearly out of place… It’s really buried back there—I only see it when the sun hits it just right…
Cocking my head sideways, I slide my arm under the Dumpster and pull out the bright blue plastic nametag with the white writing:
Senate Page
Viv Parker
My mouth sags open. My fingers go numb. There’s some dirt on the lettering, but it brushes right off. The nametag shines—it hasn’t been out here long. I look back at the dent and the dark stain. Maybe just a few hours.
Oh, damn.
There was only one reason for Matthew to interact with a Senate page. Today was the day. Our stupid fucking bet… If they were both out here, maybe someone—
My phone rings in my pocket, and I jerk backward from the vibration against my leg.
“Harris,” I answer, flipping the phone open.
“Harris, it’s Barry—where are you?”
I look around the empty lot, wondering the same thing myself. Barry may be blind, but he’s not stupid. If he’s calling me here, he…
“Just heard about Matthew,” Barry says. “I can’t believe it. I’m… I’m so sorry.”
“Who told you?”
“Cheese. Why?”
I shut my eyes and curse my assistant.
“Harris, where are you?” Barry adds.
It’s the second time he’s asked that question. For that reason alone, he’s not getting an answer.
Climbing to my feet, I brush the dust from my pants. My head’s still spinning. I can’t do this now… but… I have to. I need to find out who else knows. “Barry, have you told anyone else about this?”
“No one. Almost no one. Why?”
He knows me too well. “Nothing,” I tell him. “What about Matthew’s office mates—they heard yet?”
“Actually, that’s who I just hung up with. I called to
pass the word, but Dinah… Trish from the Senate… they already knew. Somehow, they got the news first.”
I look down at the page’s nametag in the palm of my hand. In all the time we were playing the game, it was never important who we were betting against. That was the fun of it. But right now, I’ve got a bad feeling it’s the only thing that matters.
“Barry, I gotta go.”
I press the End button and dial a new number. But before I can finish, there’s a soft crunch of gravel behind the Dumpster. I race around to the back of it, but no one’s there.
Keep it together, I tell myself.
I take a deep breath and let it wash down to my abdomen. Just like my dad used to do when the bills came. My finger once again dives for the keypad. Time to go to the source. And when it comes to the game, the only source I know is the person who brought me in.
“Bud Pasternak’s office—how can I help you?” a female voice answers. Barry’s boss. My mentor.
“Melinda, it’s me. Is he in?”
“Sorry, Harris. Conference call.”
“Can you get him out?”
“Not this one.”
“C’mon, Melinda…”
“Don’t even try with the charm, pumpkin. He’s pitching a big client.”
“How big?”
“Rhymes with
Bicrosoft.
”
Behind me, there’s another crunch of gravel. I spin around to follow the sound. Further up the driveway, behind a scrubby bunch of bushes.
That’s it. I’m gone.
“Wanna leave a message?” Melinda asks.
Not about this. Matthew… the FBI… It’s like a tidal wave, arched above my head, ready to crash down. “Tell him I’m coming by.”
“Harris, you’re not interrupting this meeting…”
“Wouldn’t even think it,” I say as I shut the phone. I’m already jogging back toward the overpass. It’s only a few blocks to First Street. Home of Pasternak & Associates.
N
ICE TO SEE YOU
,” Janos said, blowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing a quick wave to the female security guard.
“Can I have you sign in for me?” the guard asked, tapping her finger on the three-ring binder that was open on her desk.
Janos stopped midstep and slowly turned back to the guard. This wasn’t the time to make a scene. Better to play it quiet.
“Absolutely,” he replied as he approached the desk. With a flick of his pen, he scribbled the name
Matthew Mercer
onto the sign-in sheet.
The guard stared up at the letters
FBI
on Janos’s blue and yellow windbreaker. To seal the deal, Janos quickly flashed a shined-up sheriff’s badge he got in an old Army-Navy store. When Janos made eye contact, the guard looked away.
“Nice day outside, huh?” the guard asked, staring out through the lobby’s enormous plate-glass window.
“Absolutely,” Janos repeated as he headed for the elevators. “Pretty as a peach.”
N
ICE TO SEE YOU,
B
ARB
,” I say, plowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing an air kiss to the security guard.
She grabs the kiss and tosses it aside. Always the same joke. “How’s Stevens?” she asks.
“Old and rich. How’s… how’s your hubby?”
“You forgot his name, didn’t you?”
“Sorry,” I stutter. “Just one of those afternoons.”
“Everybody has ’em, sweets.” It doesn’t make me feel any better. “You here to see Barry?”
I nod as the elevator dings. Barry’s on the third floor. Pasternak’s on the fourth. Stepping inside, I hit the button marked
4.
The moment the doors close, I slump against the back wall. My smile’s gone; my shoulders sag. In my pocket, I fiddle with the page’s nametag. The elevator rattles upward. All the way to the top.
With a ping, the doors slide open on the fourth floor, and I squeeze outside into the modern hallway with its recessed lighting. There’s a receptionist on my right. I go
left. Pasternak’s assistant’ll never buzz me through. There’s no choice but to go around. The hallway ends at a frosted-glass door with a numeric keypad. I’ve seen Barry enter it a hundred times. I punch in the code, the lock clicks, and I shove my way inside. Just another lobbyist making the rounds.
Decorated like a law firm but with a bit more attitude, the halls of Pasternak & Associates are covered with stylish black-and-white photos of the American flag waving over the Capitol, the White House, and every other monument in the city—anything to show patriotism. The message to potential clients is clear: Pasternak lobbyists embrace the system—and work within it. The ultimate inside job.
Wasting no time, I avoid all offices and make a sharp right toward the back, past the kitchenette. If I’m lucky, Pasternak will still be in the conference room, away from his—
“Harris?” a voice calls out behind me.
I spin back and paint on a fake grin. To my surprise, I don’t recognize the face.
“Harris Sandler, right?” he asks again, clearly surprised. His voice creaks like a loose floorboard, and his green hangdog eyes have a silent darkness to them. They lock on to me like a bear trap. Still, the only thing I’m concerned with is the blue and yellow FBI windbreaker he’s wearing.
“Can I talk to you a moment?” the man asks as he points me back toward the conference room. “I promise… it’ll only take a second.”
